


A Creature of Utmost Beauty

by skai6 (Biosahar)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Agony, Comfort, Fluff, Geralt doesn't know Jaskier is a dragon, Geralt helping him, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier doesn't know he is a dragon, Jaskier literally transforming, M/M, Romance, Smut, Whump, dragon!Jaskier, painful transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biosahar/pseuds/skai6
Summary: Jaskier spends his days wondering why he never grows old.Until the day of his awakening arrives.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt/Jaskier
Comments: 68
Kudos: 424





	1. Chapter 1

Years went by in the blink of an eye and never once Jaskier had thought of the intricate matter concerning his boundless youth.

At first, he believed himself blessed by the genetic pool on his father’s side, a man who hadn’t shown a single grey hair until the late age of fifty, but once Jaskier edged the scheduled period himself, and not a sight of a silver thread was visible upon his head, he thought it was perhaps time to stop feigning concern.

He consulted with witches, masters of the dark arts, and even elves who might perhaps recognize in him the forgotten heir of one of their promiscuous ancestors, to no avail.

They all agreed that his condition was one of the utmost peculiar kind, that surely no human alive is able of withholding their youth to such an extent, to not have a single wrinkle add to his vivid features since the age of eighteen. It must only be the work of the dark arts. Magic.

What sort of magic that might be, Jaskier was exhaustedly clueless.

During those very years, Jaskier had come upon Geralt quite regularly in his travels. They drank and dined, parted and reunited but never once did Jaskier mention the matter laying at the core of his worry for fear of uncovering a truth neither of them could live with.

Magic was not a matter taken with a grain of salt, Yennefer was a grand example of such. He thought if the truth unveils something dark and twisted, he would not be able to look the Witcher in the eye without seeing the shadow of a hunter staring back at him. He feared, deeply, that their friendship would not survive the truth, whatever it was.

Perhaps Jaskier was also afraid of facing himself. Afraid of looking upon a mirror and viewing not a man but a horrid creature meant to torment the world instead of healing it, afraid that he would turn out to be the exact opposite of what he devoted his life to become. Not a bard, not a romantic, not a lover. Just another beast.

But see, there were two things Jaskier was wrong about.

The first was that regardless of how little he spoke of his past, of his present or future, Geralt could see right through his worries and lament. The second matter was of a more delicate nature. Jaskier never knew who he was until the day he experienced it, and what he was, was nothing dark, corrupt, or twisted.

What he was, was a thing of utmost beauty.

It happened on a stormy winter day. He and Geralt trotted hurriedly through the mud seeking shelter from the drenching rain. They were caught amidst a downpour and Jaskier has been feeling ill for days prior to that day.

Feverish and dazed, he was laid down on the cave's dry stony ground and inspected for injuries. Geralt had gone out of his way to fetch the necessary ingredients for a potion and made him drink it before bed, promising that it would ease his discomfort.

“Am I dying?” he helplessly asked him.

“Rest,” came his friend’s answer.

And he did as told and rested until dawn. Nevertheless, his sleep was interrupted by a series of distressing nightmares, distorted and strange in their content, and which in his wake, left a pungent taste of ash at the tip of his tongue.

The morn came and his conditioned worsened. The fever which had subdued at night flared across his body with twice as much intensity, and he felt a lump in his throat akin to swallowed dust, massive and unwavering, no matter the amount of liquid he consumed.

His sole source of water was soon drained, and he waited for Geralt’s return with violent impatience. The Witcher eventually came back, drenched from the mild rain pouring endlessly outside, and bearing on his shoulder a bulky deer he heaved by the fire.

“You’re awake,” he stated with awoken interest, seeking to lay a hand upon the skin of the bard's cheek to examine his temperature. “You’re still burning. A cold.”

“No,” came the feeble voice of the other. “I recognize a cold. This is something else."

“How do you feel?”

“Horribly thirsty,” he expressed, running his palm over his burning forehead in worry. “As if I haven’t drunk in days. The burning is from within. The fever is not merely physical. I can feel it feeding off of my soul, eating at me from the inside. As if… As if I have a burning flame resting at the very pit of my stomach.”

Jaskier pushed himself upward with great difficulty, to which Geralt was objecting at first, then eventually allowed, taking the opportunity to concoct another potion for him to swallow.

“Do you think I contracted a disease of some sort?”

“It could be,” said Geralt. “Common in the wilderness. Drink this.”

“This again?” lamented the bard, accepting the vial of liquid nonetheless, and inspecting it with wary eyes. “What is it anyway? It tastes like piss. Even smells like it.”

“You don’t want to know,” hummed Geralt nonchalantly, then turned to tend to the skinning of his fresh hunt. “Drink it and rest. I’ll fetch more water and wake you up when the food is ready.”

The conversation had drained him immensely, and after gulping the piss-tasting potion he trusted Geralt did not make out of the water of a swamp, Jaskier fell into a peaceful slumber.

Until the heat torched his insides ablaze. The rain and sweat-drenched clothing clang to his body. He twisted and turned in his sleep and experienced for the first time since this disease befell him pain so sharp it tore achingly at his back. The sting was akin to a beast’s claws digging into the depth of his skin, itching and scratching and eager to tear him open.

His nightmares grew more twisted and grim, also, and in them, he felt a ravenous thirst for freedom undone. The kind experienced by a bird who, although longing for air, for the sky and all that is beyond, is left endlessly bound to a cage.

Jaskier woke up feeling a desperate need to break free.

A gentle hand came resting on his shoulder, tenderly reassuring him of his state. Geralt had gone out of his way to prepare dinner, replenish his water flask, and tend to his sweat-drenched skin.

“Feeling worse?” He guessed acutely, golden hues comfortably resting on his.

Jaskier parted his lips to answer but words failed to escape the lump in his throat, now far more swollen and massive. He was discouraged of further attempts and was handed water to appease, if not shortly, his dehydrated core.

“You’re sweating plenty,” continued Geralt in a monotonousness that reflected his innate worry. “I’ll need to turn you to your side to reach your back. You think you can handle the motion?”

Jaskier nodded vaguely, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Then, with two strong yet steady hands, one gripping his arm the other his lower back, he was turned to his side with minimum hardship, and his damp shirt was pulled off him, at last.

There was a moment of silence stretching afterward, in which Jaskier expected Geralt’s towel-wielding hand to dab at his back gently, but instead, and to his greatest agony, the Witcher’s fingertips came in direct contact with a part of him he could hardly recognize as his own. 

He cried loudly and painfully after that, and even after Geralt’s hand was long gone, he could not appease the piercing twinge that shot at him with recurrent intensity.

“It hurts!” he growled, crying. “It hurts, oh gods, it _fucking_ hurts!”

“Jaskier!”

Geralt was stunned, speechless. He stood behind, away from sight, and waited until Jaskier’s howling turned into a series of quiet sobs.

“Jaskier,” he demanded, the warmth of his body nearing his back. “Are you okay?”

A faint whimper broke out of him.

“What is wrong with me?” he lamented, tears streaming down to his chin, his back aching and burning as if it had been set aflame. “What is happening to me?”

There was hesitance coating Geralt’s next words, failing to find the right thing to say.

“Your back,” he spoke at last. “It looks… Different.”

“Don’t touch it!” cried the bard, “I beg of you, Geralt. Don’t touch it. It hurts, it fucking hurts. Like someone is skewing a spear onto my backbone. I’m in agony!”

“If I don’t examine it, I wouldn’t know what it is,” came the inevitable answer. “I’ll be gentle.”

And the bard fell silent after that, as if adhering, against his will, to the statement.

And when Geralt’s hand came touching him again, Jaskier braced himself for the shooting pain that drilled at him with excruciating intensity, setting his body and mind aflame, and in his suffering, Jaskier’s mind went blank, and he was revisited by the caged bird from his dreams.

Except that this time, the bird had broken free.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments. I intended for this to be a one-shot work but since I'm impatient to share my writing as I go, I decided to split it into roughly 6 chapters (or more if needed). 
> 
> Most importantly, I want to write about Dragon!Jaskier after the complete transformation takes place. 
> 
> Until then, enjoy!

When Jaskier woke up the next morning the sun shone brighter than ever, the air around him smelled of the sweetest of fragrances, and he felt completely and utterly free.

His fever had greatly subdued and he was overwhelmed by the spur of energy that overtook him. He dressed back in his shirt, now dry, and rose up to his feet with ease. His back had completely healed, and whatever it was that poked pain at him the night before was gone. 

Excitement embraced him at the thought of having survived the unknown disease, and desperate to notify Geralt of the joyful news, he swiftly strode out of the cave in search of his companion.

He caught the Witcher seated by the side of the lake, deep in thought and amidst what appeared to be a failed attempt at fishing. He sat on a steady rock by his side and watched him raise a tired eye. In it, Jaskier caught a brief hint of wariness, something he first thought was the fabric of his mind, until the Witcher was lowering his head in silence, delaying his answer, then Jaskier understood something was afoot. 

“Let me guess,” he started, brushing the tension aside, “My snoring drove you out? I can’t be blamed. A man was at death’s door.”

He heartily laughed at his own words only to be met with a flat sigh drawing from the other’s mouth. Geralt was far from angry. He wore a look of concern, a look that the last time Jaskier has been given, the two drove apart for years to come.

An unsettling silence stretched between them, and Jaskier was left pondering upon what he could have possibly done to receive such a treatment, until the Witcher was rising to his feet, facing him with his back as he finally addressed him.

“How long?” came the inquiry.

To which Jaskier obliviously blinked.

“How long what?” he retorted, eyebrows knitting, “We’re staying here? Well, I’m healthy, full of energy, and ready to go. Yes, as you can see, I’ve healed. Thank you very much for asking.”

“How long have you known?” snapped the other, turning, at last, to face him. 

“Know what?” wondered Jaskier. “Geralt, is this a joke? Are you teasing me?”

He most certainly was not, because now there was a shade of looming anger colouring the Witcher's features, a deep dark frown and fiery wolfish eyes that pierced Jaskier as one would a prey.

“You think this is some joke?” he hissed behind gritted teeth. “You think you could keep something this _significant_ from me? I thought we were friends, Jaskier. I thought you trusted me. Guess I was wrong.”

Abashed, the bard strove to put the elements of the conversation together to try and understand what the other was onto him for.

“What did I do this time?” He blatantly asked, aware of his long history of mistakes. “Geralt, talk to me!”

“Drop the act already,” stated the Witcher with bitterness. “I know your true nature.”

“My true nature?” came his echo.

“Although I understand,” he sighed heavily, his anger eventually subduing. “I understand why your kind would rather hide from the world when the world is onto them. You’re endangered, rare, and there are a thousand hunters running after you claiming every bone of your body for their shallow glory. But what I do not understand is why you wouldn't trust me. Do you think I am one of them? Is that it?”

And he turned suddenly gentler, the look in his eyes softening upon approach.

“I won’t hurt you,” he declared aloud, “I will never let anyone else hurt you. I know it is much to ask but you have to trust me, Jaskier. You have to trust me to keep you safe.”

And in his eyes, in those golden sun-reflecting hues, Jaskier saw the horror of a truth he ignored for years. The truth about himself.

Geralt must have known. He must have known for as long as they have been travel companions. He must have noticed, and who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t notice their friend not aging a day since the very first meeting? 

But Jaskier was also frightened. Frightened because Geralt withheld a truth he did not know yet. A truth he was afraid of unveiling for fear or it shattering his dream of a world, breaking it apart and scattering the debris leaving them forever unrestored. Jaskier was afraid to become what he never wanted to be.

A monster.

“What is it?” he urged firmly. “What am I, Geralt?”

And Geralt’s expression was washed by a sudden hint of realization.

“You… Don’t know?”

“Tell me,” he demanded, voice weak. “Tell me and get it over with. I’ve been desperate to hide it for years. Desperate to push the truth from destroying whatever I have made of this miserable life of mine. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? _You_ know. Do you know what that means? It means the _I_ , who knows nothing about who I am, will ruin it all eventually and _you_ will have to clean up the mess.”

“No,” dryly reciprocated Geralt.

“You _will_!” he yelled. “You will have to. Now tell me and get it over with or god knows what the fucking monster I am is capable of!”

“You’re not a _monster_ ,” cut Geralt shortly, reaching out to squeeze him by the shoulder. “You’re a dragon, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s expression fell suddenly. He seemed to consider the statement, to familiarize with it, to understand it, to make something of it.

“A dragon,” he repeated, lowering a baffled gaze. “You’re kidding. I’m too petty to be as wondrous a creature as that. I mean come on, Geralt, look at _me_.”

“You haven’t entirely transformed,” explained Geralt, “But I have seen enough to prove my point. Red eyes and crimson-scaled wings. The fever, the pain, it was all part of the process. You were experiencing your first burst of maturity. There will be more to come, and I need to be around when it happens.”

“More to come?” echoed the bard, wincing. “You mean I have to suffer like that for what, forever?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Geralt. “I’ve only ever met a dragon once before you. You were there.”

Jaskier remembered the forgotten journey quite clearly in his head, but the reason behind that was unrelated to dragon matters.

“I remember,” he said. “You barking at me on that mountaintop.”

Geralt winced.

“I thought we were over that. It’s been what? Fifteen years?”

“And you haven’t apologized once,” He muttered, furrowing. “We met again years later in that tavern quite by chance and decided to pretend like none of it ever happened. But it did, didn’t it? So why now? Why do you want to help me?”

If there was a sign of guilt on his face, Geralt concealed it by turning his back at him again. He seemed taken by the sight of the morning shine gracing the serenity of the lake, the whistling of the breeze swaying the branches of the trees surrounding them. He seemed so intent on finding his answer in there, somewhere, floating amidst nature. 

“Because I care,” came his delayed declaration, “Human or dragon, it's still you, Jaskier. You're my friend and your well-being matters to me.”

If there was any anger surging from Jaskier’s core at that point in the conversation, it was subdued at once.

He approached the Witcher from behind, scared to reach out for him, scared of what he was capable of now that he knew who he was, _what_ he was.

“A dragon,” he rolled the word in his mouth, tasting it, familiarizing with it, becoming it. “I guess I should be glad I’m not some murderous creature on a killing spree. At least dragons are peaceful – Wait, _are_ _they_?”

Geralt’s faint chuckle unloaded some of the stifling tension in the air and he seemed keener to face the companion who stood now by his side.

“Their skin is impenetrable,” he reminded. “And they can breathe out fire.”

“Is that why my skin is itching and I feel like I’ve swallowed a jug of hot water?” he gasped. “What do dragons drink anyway? I need to consider a new diet, perhaps. What about flying? Dragons can fly, can't they? Sweet gods, I’ve always dreamt of flying!”

“Calm down,” hummed Geralt. “First we need to seek information on how your transformation will carry on. We need to ask someone who knows about your kind most. Someone like you. A dragon.”

“I am not going anywhere near a mountain,” spat Jaskier at once, arms akimbo. “It brings back terrible memories, you see. And yes, I quite blame you for that.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

And after that, the Witcher strode back to the cave to fetch Roach and prepare her for the journey, only to soon be tailed by a helpless, stubborn, yet non-threatening dragon with hopeful eyes and a heart of gold.

“Geralt, wait for me!”

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

The journey through the mountainous terrain was strenuous and tiring, and they had to make various stops for Jaskier to catch his breath and regain enough strength to venture further. It had become so recurrent a happening that even Roach grew impatient and started nudging at the bard’s back urging him to push forward.

“I can’t go any further!” he whined, heaving with exhaustion. “I need a break for gods’ sake or I’ll die!”

“For a dragon, you sure have the stamina of a fish,” mocked Geralt from up ahead.

They had barely arrived at the foot of the mountain with yet another day or two worth of climbing ahead of them. Geralt hadn’t broken a sweat and Jaskier was not amused having him poke fun at his state-of-being at every given chance.

“Get on Roach,” he said. “She doesn’t like anyone on her back but I’ve never seen her so desperate to get something over with.”

“Ha – Ha, very funny,” grunted Jaskier in disbelief, “We both know the lovely lady likes me, hence why she nudges me every so often. Isn’t that right, gracious Roach?”

The horse neighed out of impatience and soon again the tip of her muzzle was thrusting at Jaskier’s back in annoyance.

“Yeah, sure,” sneered Geralt, turning his back at him to push through the last footsteps that drew the border between the forest and the mountain.

Until quite suddenly, a soft cry broke out of the bard behind and Geralt dashed back to his side at once.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” insisted the pale-looking male, “Just a scratch on my back, is all.”

“Sit down. Let me see.”

Out of dignity, Jaskier reiterated the liveliness of his well-being but Geralt wasn’t truly listening. He seated the bard in the shelter of a tree and undressed him for proper inspection.

“I might have an ointment somewhere.”

Jaskier sat there obediently and curled in the shame of having his upper body exposed to the touches of a companion he longed for.

It went without saying that Jaskier’s affection for the other hasn’t waned over the past fourty-seven years. So enamoured he was, he has forgotten how it was like to live a life not yet consumed by the existence of Geralt of Rivia.

It has been years since he last admitted the absolution of his fate, also. A fate in which he would forever withhold his feelings until the day arrives for him to take them to the grave. The realization, however, that the particular day might never come demoralized him beyond concern.

Forever, he thought. To these emotions, he shall forever be bound.

Yet quite simultaneously, in these moments of stolen bliss Jaskier wallowed. The caress of callous fingertips on his rigid skin appeased his frightened mind and he let himself sink in the fleeting delight of a forbidden fantasy.

The ointment was carefully applied to the affected area and once done, Geralt drew a short breath in silent contemplation.

“How does it look like?” wondered Jaskier, hesitant yet curious. “Describe it to me.”

“Two large slits sitting on each shoulder bone,” revealed the other, eager to rest two of his cold fingertips on the left side. “Rough to the touch, sturdy, warm. I can feel something poking underneath.”

“Oh dear, it must feel repulsive.”

“No,” came his reply. “It feels…”

The rest of his words were suspended in the air and Jaskier felt another hand come to rest on his right shoulder blade, large, warm, and soothing.

“It feels like nothing I’ve ever touched before. So breathtakingly intense.”

The lingering closeness overwhelmed Jaskier with emotions he strived to repress. To feel Geralt’s touch on his skin, so genuine and benign, had him part his lips and suck in the air expectantly.

Oh how foolish he was! How terribly foolish he was for clinging still, after all these years, to the futile hope of a love that would never see the day!

“Feeling better?” inquired Geralt.

“Yes, yes,” stuttered Jaskier, quick to rise to his foot and seek to cover himself. “Shall we carry on, then, to the top of this – oh horse's arse, now that I’m looking at it up close, this mountain’s massive! Do we _really_ need to do this? I’m quite all right with my near-death experience, you see. I lived through it once, I could do it again.”

“You were crying all night," reminded Geralt, turning over to head along with Roach. "Now save your breath for climbing."

“Where are my wings when I need them?” lamented the bard while idly trailing behind. “Oh, I have an idea. I could sing a song to pass the time. A ballad meant for this exquisite, grand journey!”

Geralt had no say in the matter, for Jaskier was quick to fetch his lute from Roach's back and strum at will the beginning of a composition he chose to title ‘The Terrifying Beast Awakens’.

Jaskier was neither a beast nor was he terrifying, but that unspoken thought remained where it emerged, in the back of Geralt’s mind.

  
**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

They set camp when the sun kissed the horizon and the wolves howled in the distance welcoming the night. 

Since they exited the forest, Jaskier no longer complained about the aching on his back. Whatever it was that ointment Geralt had given him was made of, it worked wonders in easing the itch around his backbones. He was still concerned, nonetheless, about their appearance. _Breathtakingly intense_ , Geralt had described them. Abhorrently horrifying, Jaskier had decided. 

With the bit of physical comfort now restored, he went on strumming at his lute for the rest of the night, immersed in the creation of the ballad he was adamant would become the next Best of the Continent. What could possibly smite the populace if not the legendary tale of a common bard turning into a majestic beast? Dragons have always captured the hearts of the young and old alike. It was a given that his life would become the wonder of many if he were to disclose it to the public. Whether that was a bright idea, however, was still pending in his head.

Geralt stated a particular truth concerning the few dragons existing within their lifetime. They were fantastic creatures, undoubtedly, but that was precisely what made them the target of many. The thought of dragon slayers chasing his skin and cornering him in the comfort of his home sent a fearful shudder down his spine, and it shifted his mood from excitement to worry. His inspiration left him in the end and he abandoned his lute to contemplate the crackling of the campfire.

Geralt emerged from behind the rocks shortly after.

“Rabbit, again?” came the bard's lament at the sight of what his hands bore. “Haven’t we had quite enough of butchering poor animals for meals?”

“If you’re so eager to complain then go fetch your own food.”

He bit back his words in favour of his starved stomach, and watched his companion settle down to begin skinning the fresh hunt.

For a brief second, Jaskier was reminded by the cruelty of man towards animals, alarmed by the hunting and killing, the slicing and skinning, the consumption and the gore. The thought that he too could lay where the helpless rabbit did, that he too could fall victim to another's murderous grip suddenly terrified him. 

“That look,” announced Geralt, startling him back to reality. “You’re thinking I’d do you the same.”

Although speechless, Jaskier nodded candidly.

“Rest assured,” he added in a scoff, “If anything, I’d be the one with the twisted neck. That is if you don’t decide to have me for dinner while I’m still alive.”

Jaskier laughed whole-heartedly. 

“Considering what you're doing to that poor thing," he said, pointing at the half-skinned rabbit, "I would devour you without a second thought.”

Then he paused, pondered upon his own words, and cleared his throat.

“As in _dragon_ me devouring you," he corrected with coloured cheeks. "Not _human_ me. Or else that would be quite, well, _inappropriate_. Not that there is anything wrong with those who wish to devour each other for the sake of –”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

And Jaskier shamefully fell still. 

Dinnertime was a paradoxical experience. He was suffering a hunger so intense it took every ounce of his being to resist the fried plump meat sitting on his plate. He was quite used to missing a couple of meals in the past when money was scarce or when all animals were in hibernation during the cold winter, but never once did his stomach gnaw at him in such blatant demand inciting him to gobble up whatever lied in his vicinity. He lost the staring contest, at last, and under Geralt's sneering eye, swallowed the meal with remorseful tears.

The pit of his stomach remained stubbornly insatiable even after, and he was left with no other choice but to sleep it away.

Except that sleep refused to visit him that night. So he clung to his cover for warmth and distracted himself with the contemplation of the vast sky stretching above his head. The stars glimmered in a sea of uncanny darkness and the moon, a delicate crescent, shone in eternal lonesomeness.

He saw the reflection of his own loneliness floating somewhere amidst that shine, speaking of his origin and essence, of his eternal damnation. He was made to be a dragon. A creature ripped away from its own kind. So rare they were, so few, so scarce. He would have to dwell alone for eternity and beyond in hope that one day Death would be his solace. If Death ever wishes to take him, that is.

Then he shifted uncomfortably to his side and watched Geralt's shadow nestled across from him. He wondered if he also felt it, this loneliness. If all these years spent in his company, the only feeling a Witcher was condemned to was this incredible, utter loneliness. 

And that thought alone blossomed in him a poignant longing for the other.

“Geralt,” he called for him tenderly. “Are you awake?”

A grunt was all he received back.

“I was wondering,” he hummed in thought. “How can you be so sure there is a dragon at the top of this mountain?”

“I have my sources,” came Geralt’s dry tone. “Now sleep. You need your strength tomorrow. Roach can only drag you so far.”

He turned his back at him but Jaskier did not take the hint and continued mouthing his stream of thought.

“I am quite glad, you know. That it was you who saw me.”

Jaskier took the silence that followed as a cue to continue expressing himself.

“I was afraid of this day for as long as I can remember,” he said. “The thought that I would turn out to be something atrocious, hideous, something that I would not be able to look in the eyes was I to face a mirror. It ate at me for years, the pain of ignorance, reminding me of my fate, that my life was written for me. How unfair, I thought. How unfair can this world be? To put me where I am when all I ever wanted was to sing.”

He tried to laugh in hope to lighten up the mood but all that came out was a muffled whimper, a sign that his own emotions could not be deceived. So he turned to his side, hoping strongly that Geralt would not mind his pitiful state, and sought to force himself to rest.

“Dragons are peaceful creatures,” Geralt’s voice announced after moments of silence, “All they seek is the comfort of a home, enough space to breathe, enough food to survive. Men cornered them, riled them, made of them angry beasts. They never let them be, never let them live. They turned them blind with hatred and scorn when their kind was meant for neither. What you are doesn't make a difference to me. But your being a dragon is by far most fitting. You've always been a hot-headed fool with a heart of gold.”

Jaskier was so moved by the speech he pushed himself up at once, words of gratitude suspended at his lips.

Then Geralt groaned at him, “Sleep."

And with a fluttering heart and a joyous smile, Jaskier sank back in the comfort of his cover. He slept breathing the fresh air of a night unbound with Geralt’s words echoing in his head for company.

His dreams were visited by a pleasant comfort, coated with the promise of a future that might not be as terrifying as he made it out to be. It eased his mind at first, then those tender thoughts spiraled down a darker path and Jaskier woke up suffocating in his breath.

He thought at first that the earlier symptoms had returned. That the second phase of his _awakening_ was afoot. But he stood corrected when he realized that the nature of his suffocation – although just as arduous – appeared not to be of the painful kind.

The pit of his belly twirled in unusual warmth and he lowered his head to investigate the source of his discomfort. He removed the frayed cover and allowed his breath to hitch at the sight of the mess revealed under.

Then behind him, across the ashy firewood separating him from his companion, the sound of rustling was heard. 

_Oh, no, no, not now!_

Panicking, Jaskier was quick to clutch his cover and press it onto his lower half, eager to have the intensity of the throbbing subdue, for no matter how tremendous the mess he made was, it released none of the pent up arousal he awoke in, and he was still as stiff as a rod.

“Jaskier?” murmured Geralt in his sleep-rugged voice, his shadow looming over him. “You’re breathing fast. Are you hurting?”

"No, I'm -"

Words fumbled in his mouth and his attempt to conceal himself grew futile. Geralt’s grip was already tearing the blanket off him to unveil what was underneath, and with a hint of realisation flickering in the dark amber of his eyes, followed by the keen flutter of an eyelid, his expression relaxed and he let out a sigh.

“I see,” he spoke without a hint of disarray. “You're maturing. It’s only natural for your body to react this way.”

“Gods, Geralt, did you _really_ have to say that?” snapped Jaskier in sheer embarrassment. His cheeks flushed a crimson red, and his eyes, turned ocean blue in the dark, searched for an outer distraction that could ease some of the weight off of his heavily pounding chest.

“At least you’re not in pain,” softly replied Geralt, pressing a palm across the flustered bard’s restless thigh. “I can give you a hand, if you’re too exhausted from climbing.”

Jaskier jolted in his seat at the suggestion, and the subtle touch was enough to reignite the burning sensation at the pit of his belly, stiffening the ache of his tenting crotch.

“What?” he cried out, “Are you out of your mind?!”

And he was a fool for having spoken those words so impulsively, for Jaskier has been longing for nothing more than Geralt’s touch in the past four decades, and his body ached for the very caress he was repelling out of a sense of obligation.

“Close your eyes,” came the assertive reply, whispered in the cavity of his ear. “Think of someone else.”

The hand Jaskier initially clutched around his wrist loosened its grip, and there was nothing left to stop what was about to happen next.

His inner thigh was seized by Geralt's palm, spreading across the lump of flesh before sinking into it with a rousing squeeze. Jaskier drew a sharp breath and watched him take his time feeling every inch surrounding his bulge before cupping it with an ardor he could almost mistake for desire. 

His strength left him after that. The intensity of his arousal – stronger than he had ever experienced before– dazed his senses entirely. His weight fell back in the comfort of his chest welcoming the sense of safety that embraced him as a result. With lust-filled half-lid eyes, he watched the laces of his breeches come undone and the veiny hand slither underneath.

" _Ah-"_

It escaped him against his will, a moan filled with lust so vivid it had him soak in pleasure and shame. He pressed his cheek onto Geralt's shoulder and inhaled deeply. The thick sweat and blood-mingled musk clung to his nostrils, and it was precisely then that Jaskier realised how heightened his senses were.

It was nothing compared to before. He inhaled more of Geralt than he was ever capable of, listened to the faintest thumping of his heart as it picked up its pace, felt every puff of exhaled air as it burned against his skin. And all reason left him when those steady rough fingers twirled around his cock and began tentatively aiming for the head. 

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt!“

And perhaps calling his name was the wrong thing to do, because Geralt hesitated for a brief second, and Jaskier began regretting being so helplessly vocal in his weakest. But then the cold tip of his nose pressed against the nape of his neck and he caught him dragging in a most desperate breath.

"You smell different," he whispered gravely, "More intense."

Jaskier was beyond himself trying to uncover the meaning behind his words, but they came with a sudden rise in pace, Geralt's grip tightening around him, the slick sound of the friction resonating in his ears, and Jaskier was once again consumed.

He raised his arm in the heat of the moment and clutched a handful of Geralt's hair, his rapid breathing coated with frequent moans he could no longer repress. He was met with an impatient groan he nearly mistook for his own, then his eyes flickered open and he met Geralt's amber hues staring right back at him.

"Geralt," he whimpered, voice brittle, desperate. "Kiss me."

And if he had known that desperation was all it took for Geralt to give in and take his lips in his, then Jaskier would have exposed himself sooner. He tasted of ale and rabbit and something indiscernibly sweet that had Jaskier fall helplessly addicted. Lust flashed before his eyes and the rising pleasure was nearing its peak. They shared the taste of each other even after Jaskier's cries resonated in the hollowness of the night and his body shuddered under the delightful effect of a powerful tear-jerking orgasm. 

Then from that peak, he cascaded into the gentle embrace of his Witcher. 

"Stay," he murmured out of a selfish need, clutching at the hem of Geralt's shirt. "Just for tonight. Sleep close to me." 

And he stayed. Jaskier fell asleep enveloped in his arms and lulled by the sound of his tired heartbeats. 

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments. I live for those.
> 
> While the last chapter bore a soft and happy undertone, this chapter comes as a reminder of the pain and hurt resulting from the ongoing transformation. Jaskier will /suffer/ as you read. 
> 
> You've been warned!

The smell of burnt flesh fished him out of his profound sleep.

Exhausted and half-dazed, Jaskier's drooping eyes flickered lazily in search of the source of the heat. He was certain the campfire had long lost its spark by now, and considering the altitude at which they were suspended, no fires of neighbouring campsites would be able to survive the intensity of the blowing summer wind to reach their range.

When he gave up scrutinizing the tranquil distance and blinked his tiredness away, there it jumped into his view. Waves of smoky heat seeping out of his skin and rising to dissipate in the cold breeze of dawn. He did not recognize his own arm, dotted with a layer of charcoal scales spiked at their edges. Their crust shining in a mixture of crimson and amber, akin to the glow of smelted iron in a freshly-forged blade.

An unspeakable horror seized him at the look of his hand next. Sharp curved claws had breached out of the tip of his fingernails, coated in an ebony tint that reeked of blood – his own.

He wanted to scream but his voice betrayed him. He moved his arm and the slit in his back breached open. A crackling sound erupted, followed by the burning sensation of his inner organ breaking through the tissue of his backbone skin, twisting and stretching until the blood gushed out along with a pair of sharp bones. He felt the blood drip down his spine as a cry of terror tore out of him, alarmingly raising Geralt from his slumber.

“Jaskier!”

When he seized hold of him Jaskier broke the contact at once. He was afraid he would hurt him, afraid he would lose himself and commit the unthinkable and _gods, he would never forgive himself_. The pain was gradually consuming him. The wound in his back was torn open, wider and wider, until the sturdy bone underneath carved its way out, and with tears of agony, Jaskier watched as the first wing burst out of him in the open.

Heavily crushing his shoulder and dense with a thick layer of garnet-glimmering scurf, it expanded massively above his head, towering over his feeble trembling frame. It looked like nothing he had ever seen before. Something foreign, something that wasn't part of him. _It could not be part of him_. Behind him, Geralt stood watching, petrified and uncertain. Then a yell, neither his nor Geralt’s, erupted from the corner of the mountain path they ventured through the day before. 

_“We found him!”_ declared the unfamiliar tone.

Geralt unsheathed his swords faster than Jaskier's eye could flicker. In his utterly vulnerable state, he shifted his red hues towards the source of the disruption and viewed, with brightness-enhanced vision, a group of sword-wielding men charging across their camp.

There were at least five massively-built individuals among the large crowd and each came at Geralt from a different angle. Swift and precise, the Witcher fended off the first hammer attack and managed to knock two of the hunters down in the process. Until one of the larger men, twice Geralt’s size, swung at him when least expected and pitched his body across the next boulder.

_“Get the dragon!”_ yelled his defeater.

At the hearing of the leader's call, three men came storming towards Jaskier. In his anguish-driven trance, he could not defend himself and fell easy prey to their violent ambush, kicking and shoving, pulling and ripping. He only recognized he had grown horns across the edge of his hairline when they were forcibly seized, yanked, and twisted. The damaged skin from which they emerged shot razor-sharp pain across his body and Jaskier thought he was about to lose consciousness amidst it all.

Then an outer force catapulted the three hunters that loomed over him with the promise of a threat, and their bodies were sent scattering to the edge of the mountain. Two of them lost their fight to gravity, and the echo of their shouts faded in the pit of the forest under. The third came charging back at Geralt along with the rest of the bandits at their tail.

“Run!"

It was with a stretched delay that the Witcher’s command reached his ear, then his grip came seizing Jaskier by the arm and lifting him back to his feet. Jaskier staggered and fell back, unable to hold himself still in a body within which inner and outer pain collided as one – a body that was no longer his own.

The ringing in his ear blasted like a siren, alarming him of an upcoming carnage. Though little did Jaskier know, it was not his own slaughter that was afoot.

The heavy hunter was once again charging with his hammer at Geralt, swift and precise and fiercely brutal in his cadence. The first blow went over his head, the second scratched his chest, and the third crushed his leg. Geralt fell to his knee with a carnal growl seeping out of his guts and blood tainting his lips. Though even at his weakest, the Witcher refused to yield.

_Why did he refuse to yield?_

"Let him go," he grunted, struggling to regain his stance and failing. "He's not the one you're looking for."

"And what would you know about what we're looking for?" barked back the leader, swinging his hammer over his shoulder in pride. 

"You're dragonslayers," stated Geralt. "The dragon you're after is at the top of this mountain. It's not him."

With a hearty laugh and a filthy grin, he turned to share his scorn with his lot.

"It's not him, he says," mocked the hunter, "Do you lads also see a winged beast with horns and fangs over here or am I turning blind?"

And his lot scoffed and sneered in response, and he turned to stare down at Geralt.

"Get out of my way, Witcher. The dragon is _mine_."

"You'll have to walk over my dead body first."

A spark of challenge glimmered in the dragonslayer's eye, and in its reflection, Jaskier caught a glimpse of Geralt's unwavering determination.

_Why did he refuse to yield?_

_Because he promised to protect you._

All events that followed were blurred in Jaskier’s memory. There was a merging of emotional outbursts and physical frenzy, the formation of a state of utter tranquillity and absolute destruction. A hollow mind, a scorching body, all igniting within him, all enkindling at once.

And there was blood, an abundance of it. Its stench seeped into his flaring nostrils, mingled with the taste of flesh torn between ruthless meat-starved canines. He gnawed and ravaged and dismantled. All that stood in his way was soon of the past, broken and lifeless and hollow. Carcass upon carcass scattered across the silent camp until the sun, a witness of the slaughter, sent its first ray of sunshine to uncover the undeniable truth.

Then the voice of the only person who could never fail to whisper reason into his distorted mind reached back to him.

“Jaskier, that’s enough.”

And he regained awareness of his deeds, of what was done, of what could never be undone, and he crumbled atop his Witcher with tears blurring his sight, guilt and remorse bearing heavily on his shoulders.

“What have I done?” he sobbed in a violent shudder. "Oh gods, what have I _done_?!”

To which Geralt responded with the silent caress of a hand seeking the comforting touch of his cheek. Soft, tender, warm. It reconnected Jaskier with his consciousness, with his humanity. It reminded him of who he was. A bard, not a monster.

_Never a monster._

Except that now, that line was crossed.

**TBC**


End file.
